


i will chase the boy in you away

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, slime puppy, the adventures of mole woman and rockstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: “So we have a deal?” Roman asks, when Gerri’s back is to him, when her hands are pulling down her skirt, smoothing the wrinkles, when she’s looking at the floor for her discarded undergarments.





	i will chase the boy in you away

She’s not one to drink at the office, leaves that to the men with their forehead sweat and their wilted pocket squares, but when it’s dark, just the lamp on in the corner, and Roman’s holding out a glass, Gerri doesn’t want to say no. 

Ostensibly, they’re working. They have file folders out and computers open. She has her glasses perched on the end of her nose to help her read the bright screen in her lap. Roman is tossing a paperweight between his hands, her reward for fifteen years at the company going back and forth, hitting his palms with a soft “thup.”

“What do you think?” She’s always asking, always pressing, because she knows there are ideas in that head of his, knows there are thoughts and words that add up to something, if only he can get the space and time. 

“About what?” His head tilts back, he’s looking at the ceiling, the paperweight never stopping. She can’t tell if he’s truly forgotten what they’re talking about or if he’s baiting her. 

“Roman.” Her voice is soft, lined with steel, and he turns his head, looks at her. She can smell the whisky from her glass, the ice cubes slowly melting, his eyes on her, dark, dangerous, wary. “What do you think about the contract?” What does he think about putting pen to paper on this deal of theirs, on formalizing the partnership of a rockstar and a mole woman? 

Whatever they have is unspoken, to put it in words feels like sacrilege. 

“It’s fine, it’s good, it’s fine.” _Thup_. _Thup_. His eyes change, sharpen, and Gerri feels as though she’s being undressed. Doesn’t hate it. By now, he’s seen it all before. By now, there are very few secrets between them. 

“Roman, focus.” He hasn’t looked at his computer in an hour, he’s only looking at her.

“I am focused.” That plaintive tone, that little boy dressed up in his father’s suit. That rapscallion in his Sunday best. 

“No, you’re eyeing me like a lascivious hyena.” She closes her own computer, sips her whisky, passes the glass to Roman. His hands close around it, his lips going right over the print of her lipstick, his eyes never leaving her as he swallows, ice hitting his lips. She feels the shiver on her spine, the one that starts right at the base of her neck. 

“But I’m very focused on it.” His mouth twists into a smirk and he sets the glass down, condensation making it slide slightly on the smooth table, leaving a trail that catches the lamplight, glowing faint orange. 

It would be easy, Gerri thinks, to slide across the couch, to straddle his legs, to unbutton that shirt, the collar already loose. Small insults, little barbs, hurtful words, they all bubble up in her mind, at the ready. 

But there’s a tenderness, too. The care she feels for him, built over years and years, holding him at his baptism, water falling over his head, his first steps on the New York City sidewalk, the first time she picked him up from jail, a furtive bail paid under the table, his name kept out of the press, when he called her and asked her for help, when he did it again and again and again. He knows she’ll come, she knows she doesn’t want to be anywhere else. 

“What do you want, Roman?” she asks, her voice clipped, not giving anything away, his darting eyes searching her face, trying to find the answer that will make her laugh, that will make her smile, that will make her roll her eyes. 

“A congenial chat. Wait, no. A conjugal chat.” She can’t stop the snort from escaping, soft, derisive, amused, sees a hint of victory tinge his expression. 

“Don’t you think you have to earn that privilege?” she asks, eyebrow raised, and she reaches for the whisky sitting between them, almost gone, can already taste the fire on her tongue, can feel it sliding down her throat, stoking the fire in the pit of her stomach. 

“Don’t _you_ think I have to earn that privilege?” he volleys back, and takes the glass from her fingertips, their hands just touching as he grabs it, tossing back the remnants of the drink, half water by now. He stands, moves behind the couch to the desk, the Macallan still uncorked, standing alone, half-empty. 

Gerri watches him pour, the glass over half full, his movements so careful, he knows he’s being watched. He’s like an alley cat, for all that he grew up in wealth, rangy and wary, always on guard. She’s always curious to know his motives, never nervous. It’s why he trusts her. Because they trust each other. 

He hands the glass to her from behind, over her shoulder, his hand brushing her hair back, finger wafting by her ear. She remembers her husband handing her a glass, kissing the top of her head, rubbing her shoulder, walking away. The familiar lump of nostalgia doesn’t lodge in her throat, is nowhere to be found. It doesn’t belong here, in this room, not with the two of them. 

“Rome,” she says, after a sip, the alcohol softening her tongue, her temperament, her voice. “What do you want?” 

The couch dips as he sits beside her, too close, so close, their thighs almost touching, and his eyes seem so dark, fighting within himself for what he wants, for what he’s willing to express. “This,” he says, but he seems sheepish, embarrassed, and Gerri knows he won’t ask, not face to face, not like this. 

“You insouciant fuck,” she murmurs, letting the words fill her mouth, round her lips, caressing the syllables, “so cocksure, thinking you can waltz in here when the lights are out and get what you want.” His breath snags, stutters, his hair flops into his eyes as he looks down, lashes curling against his cheeks. “You’ve never had to work for a goddamn thing in your life, and you think you don’t have to work for me.” 

Her hand is on his thigh, her nails pale against the navy fabric, pressing, indenting, squeezing. She can feel the heat of his skin, can feel his pulse. “But you do, Roman Roy,” she whispers, mouth so close to his ear, “you do.” She turns, her other hand sliding into the space between the buttons of his shirt, feeling his clammy chest, his beating heart. 

“What do I have to do?” he asks, words coming out in a slight pant, and he shifts, already getting hard, so fast, so easy, when someone knows what words to say. 

“Get that potato peeler of a dick hard,” she says, words she’s never said to another person, words that only come to her when Roman needs them. “I want you to fuck me into this couch, Roman. I want you to prove that you have some sort of worth on this godforsaken planet. I want you to show me this partnership isn’t just a waste of my fucking time.” From her mouth, the words are terse, bitten off, sharp, yet they wrap around him like a caress.

He seems frozen, unable to act, always his problem - too many options presenting themselves, too much self doubt to know which one he wants. 

So Gerri acts for him, bunches her hands in his shirt, pulls him closer, closer, until he has no option but to hike his leg over hers, to straddle her lap, her hands still fisted against his chest. She looks up at him, a challenge in her eyes, vitriol on her lips, and waits. Waits for his eyes to flick to hers, for the corner of his mouth to tip up, and then she says, “You ungrateful, hyperactive _squirt_.” 

It’s enough to spur him into action, enough to make him lean into her, to bite at her lower lip, to drag it slowly between his teeth. She grunts at the sensation, at the slight pain, her hips bucking slightly against his pelvis, and she can feel how hard he is, how ready. 

Roman’s hands go under her blouse, the silk giving easily to his questing hands, and she doesn’t have time to feel shame, not when he pinches a nipple, hard and fast and surprises a gasp from her. She thinks they each like a little bit of pain, albeit different kinds, alongside their pleasure. 

“Fuck you,” she says, a whisper, a promise, and his lips find hers again. Kissing is strange, not always what they do, not always a priority, but there’s whisky on his tongue and a frenetic bend to his touch, to his movements, and Gerri lets him bite her lip, lets him roll his body against hers, because it’s what they both want. 

“We’ll get there,” he pants, when his mouth is smeared with her lipstick, when her hair is mussed from his hands, when her blouse is askew, her skirt bunched up on her thighs. He nips at her earlobe, noses into her hair and breathes deep, the smell of familiarity - she hasn’t changed shampoo in forty years. 

When his hands move next, they’re pushing her skirt up to her hips, the cold air of the office hitting her legs, making goosebumps pop up along her smooth skin. Roman slides his hands along her bare legs, smirking, like he knows she got a wax for this moment, and she can’t fault him for knowing the truth. But instead she says, “Your hubris will make you fall from the sky, Icarus,” and pushes him to the side, her turn to straddle his legs, to take control. 

There’s a routine, of sorts. He’ll start things, but can’t always finish, needs Gerri to take charge, to guide, to aide. His girl Friday. 

Her skirt barely covering anything at this point, ass against his bony knees, she unbelts his trousers, whipping it from the loops with a practiced ease, and his eyes widen, his glee, his arousal, unable to be masked. Her hands open the fly just as efficiently, nails scraping against the zipper, and he springs free, far more than the potato peeler she accused him of earlier. 

It’s a bit of work to push herself to her knees, hands pressed into the back of the couch, framing Roman, her arms stiff, but he knows what to do, takes his cue, sliding her underpants down, and she doesn’t miss the way he sniffs, the way his eyes go even darker, the scent of her always enough to make him go a little mad. 

It’s ungainly, messy, the kind of thing she’d never do back when she was married, this awkward removal of her underthings, letting someone see her as anything less than put-together. But with Roman, it doesn’t matter, and so when she balances on one knee, a slight wince on her face, as she slides her underpants off one leg, then down the other, he just waits, one hand just slightly toying with himself, thumb flicking back and forth, the other reaching up to balance her, to hold her hip, to keep her stable. 

It’s how they manage, this unspoken thing between them the third leg of the stool. And so when she’s free of the cloth, when she can feel the breeze between her legs, she kisses Roman, scrapes her nails against his scalp, a guttural sound as his hand moves from her waist to the apex of her thighs, as it moves her warm flesh aside, his fingers finding their place, their rhythm. 

She moves, slow gyrations, the speed she likes, careful, considerate, his fingers purposeful in a way he never is outside of this. When they’re together, she can describe him as goal-oriented, as focused, it’s how she knows he has the ability; it’s just a matter of making him apply it elsewhere. His fingers spread her, her wetness dripping, warm, sticky, and he makes room for himself, pushes slightly, and her mouth drops open as he slides in, her head tipping back, her eyes pointed towards the ceiling. 

Again she moves, and again his hand holds her steady at her waist, they thrust in tandem, they find their pattern. He’s a step behind and then he matches her pace, and she can see the sweat on his brow, can feel the clamminess of his hand beneath her shirt. Her ass is bare to anyone who might walk by the office, Roman’s hand pressed into it, his fingers leaving their mark as he grips her. 

“What’s it going to be, Roman?” she asks, though coherence isn’t her primary goal, “Are you going to get fucked or are you going to be the one fucking?” It isn’t about them, and he knows it, even as he thrusts harder against her, as she feels his nails in her skin, as she hears the stuttering of his breath. When he pushes into her, she feels the force behind it, the drive, and she looks down at him, looking up at her between her hands. 

“We’re going to win,” she says, like a promise, like a prayer, and feels him thrust up once more, pushing her over the edge, making her pleasure explode from her on a sibilant hiss. They both know what’s at stake, they both know every player in the game. They both know no one will see this coming. 

“So we have a deal?” Roman asks, when Gerri’s back is to him, when her hands are pulling down her skirt, smoothing the wrinkles, when she’s looking at the floor for her discarded undergarments.

“Rome,” she says, can’t help the motherly tone in her voice, “we always had a deal.” She turns off the lamp, leaves the office in darkness.


End file.
